


A monk on temple steps

by nikaris



Series: Shell games [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: But just a little!, Butchering of Attempted Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Clay Lives, Desmond Miles Lives, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Lucy Lives, Modern Assassins, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Partial Mind Control, Sort Of, The Assassins are confused and concerned, The Templars are confused and concerned, With it, and is having a hard time dealing with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13237896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikaris/pseuds/nikaris
Summary: Clay isn't the most religious person in the world. He doesn't do that sort of loyalty or devotion.But then a bartender just has to comes along and muck everything up.---The continuation of what happens when Desmond meets Clay far earlier than expected, takes Clay's fate as a result, and Clay's attempt at fixing that.





	A monk on temple steps

**Author's Note:**

> Whoever is making these dossiers for them needs to be fired. STAT.

_You’re a real jerk. You know that, right?_

 

Colors swarm all around him in the market place. They sing, they laugh, but he pays the celebration around him very little mind. That’s not what he’s here for, after all.

_You think you’re helping anybody here? Playing martyr because of some misplaced guilt? Did you even think this through?_

 

It’s a long shot. There’s a possibility that this is all for nothing, but he as to _try._ His attention flickers across a myriad of faces with the _hope that maybe, **maybe this time** —_

_What, did you think I’d be happy? You’ve left me here to hold down the fort all by myself._

_Asshole._

_You…_

Another day, another failure.

He’ll try again next time.

_…Where are you, Desmond?_

-0-

 

Somehow, somewhere, sometime _very soon,_ Desmond Miles is going to _die._

Rebecca stifles a sigh, watching sympathetically as Shaun drags a hissing breath through his teeth. He looks like he’s trying very, _very,_ hard to not snap at Desmond and Rebecca honesty can’t help but be impressed at how long he’s managed to hold out. It’s quite admirable even, how despite the obviousness of Shaun’s fuming (Rebecca _swears_ she can see steam shooting out of his ears) their novice is utterly unaffected, if not oblivious, to Shaun’s ire.

(Which is kind of hilarious to her because a pissed off Shaun is a _fun_ Shaun.)

Rebecca can’t blame Shaun for his irritation, however. While she relents that prolonged use of the Animus has led to increased frequency and severity of the Bleeding Effect, stopping every three hours for a half hour break is a bit… excessive.  She would have been worried that the slow pace would be a hindrance, but…

She looks at the screen, noting again with no small sense of incredulity at the progress recorded every session. Despite the constant delays, the rate at which Desmond has been journeying through Ezio’s memories and retaining his skills is through the roof. It’s… _phenomenal_ even and if Rebecca weren’t so well versed in Animus data analysis, she would have thought Desmond was cheating somehow.

Or that already knew what he was doing, but that was just silly.

“C’mon, Shaun. You need to chill.” Desmond grouses lazily, eyes half-lidded. He’s sprawled on the Animus like he owns it and despite one historian seconds away from homicide, looks as relaxed as can be. “You heard Becca. I’m doing awesome.”

“ _’Awesome?’_ ” Shaun gripes, doing a fair impression of a riled cat. _“_ You call speed-running through Italy, completing missions half-assed and _intentionally_ making Ezio _punch civilians in the face_ to desync for a ‘break’, _awesome?!_ ”  

Desmond scratches his ear. “Well, it’s working, right?”

“THAT’S NOT THE ISSUE HERE!”

Luckily, Lucy is quick to intervene (which has been her self-appointed duty for the last couple days), stepping between the two men before Shaun can get an aneurism and choke Desmond out. She shoots the historian a meaningful look, causing Shaun to throw his hands up in exasperation and stalk back to his desk before she looks to Desmond beseechingly. “Desmond, _please_ be reasonable! You’ll be fine with another hour or two and I know the chance of bleeding is a big concern, but it isn’t—”

“I _really_ hope you’re not going to finish that sentence the way I think you are.” Desmond says, voice light, but there’s something steely in his eyes when he glances at her. “I’m not going to risk his— ** _my_** health,” Lucy’s slight intake of breath, Shaun’s brows jumping, and Rebecca’s typing faltering is the only indication of them catching the slip, but Desmond continues, oblivious to their disquiet, “on something that tends to, oh, I don’t know, send people into psych wards.”

“At least take these sessions a little more seriously.” Shaun says after a moment and just because Desmond’s face is starting to annoy him, chucks a pen at his head. He expects to hear a startled yelp but when the item is plucked deftly out of the air and a cheeky smirk thrown his way, Shaun can only _just barely_ contain the aggravated groan that escapes his throat.

“See?” Desmond smirks, twirling the pen in his hand. “Doing _awesome._ ”       

“I mean he does have a point, Shaun.” Rebecca concedes once she recovers from her previous unease. “We’ve made a lot a progress in a short amount of time.” Nodding to herself, she looks at Desmond teasingly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d already 100% synced up with Ezio!”

Desmond smiles thinly at that, eyes crinkling in such a way that makes the near permanent bags under his eyes look even darker. “Funny that.” He stretches briefly. “If that’s all, I’m going to catch a breather.”

“ _In_ the Hideout, please.” Lucy clucks after him because she doesn’t want a repeat of Desmond’s _last_ breather—which had been meandering through the surrounding warehouses _in broad daylight._  Even if they were well into the uninhabited part of the Tor Tre Teste area, it hadn’t stopped all three of them from panicking. (“What part of _‘well-funded, multimillion company looking for our asses’_ do you _not_ understand?!”

“Blame a guy for enjoying the scenery!” Desmond had just huffed and merely thinking about his flippancy about the situation is giving Lucy a headache because no one missed how Desmond had kicked a bag of _stolen paraphernalia_ out of sight _._

“Oh great, he has sticky fingers too. Who is compiling these dossiers for us?!”)

She sighs when Desmond gives her a backwards wave and half-hearted affirmative out the door.  

“So…I’m not the only one that caught that weirdness, right?” Rebecca says once Desmond is well out of earshot. Her arms are crossed, head leaning back so far to make the back of her chair groan.

“Oh, you mean his general disregard for our whole operation, his gratuitous use of the word ‘awesome,’ or the part where he referred to himself in the third person?” Shaun counts with his fingers.  

“I was gonna say the last one, but those are valid too.” Rebecca admits with a wince before turning towards Lucy. “What do you make of it?”

By how much the other assassin is worrying her lip while still staring at the direction Desmond had left, Lucy seems to share their apprehension—which isn’t comforting. Out of all of them, Lucy knows Desmond the longest and if something about him rubs Lucy the wrong way—well, they aren’t going to ignore it.

“That’s the problem—I don’t know what to think.” Lucy says finally. “Believe me, Desmond wasn’t like _this_ before. He was fine all week but on the day we escaped…” The blonde sighs. “I don’t know what happened. It’s like his personality just… _changed._ ”

And it had, in the most troubling of directions.  

 

 

_She’s running late._

_It’s the worst thing that could have happened. Her timetable is ruined, she’s forced to cut corners in her escape plan, and to make matters even worse, this cavalcade of complications just **has** to happen on the one day that she needs to go right. _

_Lucy’s plan had been simple: alter the security patrol rotation, disable the cameras stationed along her planned route, and arrange transportation in the South garage. With her clearance and status within the research wing, it was **supposed** to be a walk in the park, but erratic issues running rampant through Abstergo servers all morning had thrown a wrench in her plans, causing a headache of delays and difficulties. _

_Lucy lets out an aggravated breath when her access card doesn’t immediately register against the sensor and instead chooses to take an exorbitantly long amount of time to process. Impatiently, she taps the card against the reader again and again, with the third try finally allowing her to pass._

_She’s stressed, irate, and more than just a little frazzled but Lucy is used to dealing with complications. She can make this work. She glances at the time on her phone. It’ll be messier than she’d prefer but—desperate times._

_Her main priority is getting Desmond through the process of escaping Abstergo and for that, she needs him in the Animus for the memory core before they can leave. So, when Lucy barges into Desmond room, she’s only half aware of the sourness in the air. His name is on her lips, mind formulating the fastest one-sentence summary and explanation she can come up with to get him to follow her lead—when she notices that he’s not on his bed like she expects. Lucy does a double-take, nearly panicking because there is no way Desmond could have left the room before she sees his hair stick out from the other side of the bed._

_“Oh, there you are.” Lucy breathes in relief, moving quickly to the other side. “Come on Desmond, we have to—Desmond?” She falters, looking down at the man who is curled up tightly into himself, head bowed deep into his arms. Is he sleeping? Feeling just a prickle of irritation, she falls to his side and barely, just **barely** grasps his shoulder when—_

_Everything in Lucy freezes. A gasp is stuck in her throat but her surprise isn’t because of the bruising grip Desmond suddenly has on her wrist._

_It’s his eyes. They’re bloodshot, staring up at her like wide and limpid pools of water. Though heavy, dark bags from lack of sleep hang from underneath his eyelids, his gaze is startling alert, but uncertain as he scrutinizes her intently with… what is it—fear? Disconnect? Delirium?_

_All thoughts of urgency leave her to make way for a cold wave of unease. There’s nothing like the Desmond she’s become familiar to in those eyes._

_And in that moment, she doesn’t know what to do. He hadn’t been like this when she’s last seen him yesterday! Surely Warren’s threats of killing him now that they had Altair’s map wouldn’t have made Desmond like this._

_Something inside her curls and cringes._

_She studies him again, withholding a wince when Desmond’s hold on her wrist slowly starts tightening. She’s surprised by his strength to be honest because he doesn’t look like he has much in him in the first place. Desmond’s color is all wrong—his usually tanned skin having taken on an ashen hue that makes Lucy suddenly conscious of the air of sickness permeating the room. His breathing is labored, loud, and with every breath, it shakes his frame so hard that Lucy fears he’s going to keel over at the lightest push._

_A Bleed, Lucy realizes belatedly. With his body language like_ this, _it **must** be. _

_“Desmond?” Lucy asks tentatively, hoping to coax him gently out of whatever memory he’s reliving without breaking her wrist in the process but unfortunately, that seems to have the opposite effect._

_Desmond flinches—hard. She sees his brows pull together, a bead of sweat slipping down the side of his temple. His eyes narrow, expression muddled, and all the sudden, Lucy is hit with a sense of déjà vu of being in this very same predicament with a man with flaxen wheat hair…_

_Lucy stops the thought, attention back at Desmond when finally, **finally,** something like recognition flirts across his face. _

_“Desmond?” Lucy asks warily and nearly sighs in relief when whatever fog Desmond is experiencing begins to clear._

_“Lu-cy.” Desmond says slowly but the syllables sound hoarse and uneven, as if it takes a great deal out of him to do so. He blinks once, twice, and its somewhat unnerving because the way he’s looking at her is like he’s seeing her for the first time. It must have been a long Bleed, Lucy thinks worriedly, but some of the tension still slides out of her shoulders. However, the respite is short lived when they both jerk up at the sound of faint yells outside the room._

_Lucy smothers a curse. Desmond’s unexpected Bleed had eaten at precious time and they need to leave **now** but—the core. She needs the memory core before they go and after what’s just happened, it’s with some guilt that Lucy turns towards Desmond._

_“I need you to get in the Animus.” Lucy says, withholding a wince. She inwardly readies herself for the inevitable outrage, but to her surprise, Desmond doesn’t resist like she expects. There’s no indignations, no long-suffering sigh, no exasperated grumbling…_

_Instead, he just nods at her dutifully. The only evidence of reluctance is a grimace that briefly crosses his face before he’s flashing her a small grin that is a little too severe than the ones she’s used to. (Probably the stress, Lucy settles.)_

_Despite that, Lucy can’t quite stop the feeling like he’s **humoring** her but she’d rather have him complacent in this situation than battling with her all the way. (It doesn’t stop the nagging feeling in the back of her mind that she’s **missing** something, though.)_

_So, she relaxes—thinking that everything is finally back on track but then he rises to his feet and for some reason, the motion sticks with her. It’s slow and clumsy, reminding her of a newborn fawn struggling to stand, unsure of its own limbs. He recovers quickly enough and is out through the door with her but even after he’s loaded into the Animus, Lucy can’t get the picture out of her head._

_There’s something wrong here but she can’t put her finger on it._

_And even when they’re rushing through the building, avoiding all and every Abstergo security personnel possible (because Desmond can’t handle it—there is no way she is going risk it) that same wrongness still stays with him. It isn’t until they reach the garage where they inevitably encounter Abstergo security does Lucy finally realize it._

_She’s taken down three of the small force that greets them and the third is laying prone beneath her retractable baton when the blonde looks over to how Desmond is fairing._

_Desmond’s isn’t a bad fighter. Lucy knows that his time as Altair had surely made some aspects of the Syrian assassin seep through, but even though she can **see** hints of Altair’s fighting style influence Desmond’s actions, it’s hindered by Desmond himself. He looks uncomfortable. _

_Desmond fights like he’s drunk—or like…he’s not used to his own body. The way he hesitates, how his feet overstep, how his punches go off their mark as if he hadn’t realized how far his frame can could take him…._

_Off balance. He looks terribly off-balance._

_Yet, that doesn’t stop him for being every bit as brutal. The last guard goes down with a heavy sound and Lucy withholds a wince because even though it looks like Desmond came out with only a couple bruises, the same can’t be said for the others lying at his feet. She understands him wanting payback from his captors (even indirectly) but even she can see that this aggression is a little too much. She sees him kneel and for a moment, she assumes he’s going to check the man’s pulse, but then his fingers curl around a stray baton, knuckles turning white around its hilt—_

 

 

She had stopped him, gripping his wrist before he could do something he’d surely regret, but she hadn’t forgotten how he’d glared at her, eyes red-rimmed, manic, _accusing_ —

Lucy shivers. 

That… _episode_ hadn’t last long, thankfully. He’d gotten into the trunk when asked, remaining docile up until she’d led him into the Hideout to meet with Rebecca and Shaun. That meeting could have gone better but at least now they’ve settled into a routine wherein there is no longer a need to walk around on eggshells around Desmond.

But now, after witnessing Desmond’s latest lapse, she wonders how long that will last. 

“Just watch him.” Lucy advises when Rebecca and Shaun ask her for her recommendation and even though it sounds lame to even her ears, it’s the only thing they can really do.

In the meantime, she has a report to write.

 

-0-

 

Clay isn’t who he used to be.

He’s reminded of this jarring fact every time he catches dark hair instead of blonde on a reflective surface, every time his joints ache with disuse after a routine stretch, every time he breathes so deeply that he feels like he’s choking, as if he’s wearing a suit that’s far too tight—

One day, Clay will get used to it. One day, he will not flinch at his reflection in a mirror. He will become accustomed to the limitations of his limbs. He will grow used to feeling _alive._

He’s endured the Black Room, survived living a life that wasn’t quite a life (barely, just _barely_ ) but he did it anyways because it needed to be done and he had chosen it freely. He got along _just fine_ (liar, _LIAR_ ) in the Black Room but then _someone_ had to come in and muck it all up…

 _This_ hadn’t been Clay’s choice but he’s on the outside anyways, in the _real world,_ without consciously feeling the lines of code running inside his spine. Clay is alive here. He is breathing, feeling, _living_ —and Clay loves it. He’s tasted life again and after the first sip, he _wants it_ —he’ll _never_ let it go, **_~~not even if Desmond—~~_**

And Clay recoils, banishing the thought as two sides within him war with each other.

One side is unrepentant. _This is our reward,_ it says, voice indignant. _Is this not what we deserve for our sacrifice? This is a gift._ And it is, for after a lonely existence in the Black Room, Clay will gladly savor the outside world _,_ reveling in its vibrancy. It’s such a long-absent, _tremendous_ sensation that it leaves Clay breathless because _holy shit,_ no matter how much the Black Room had tried, its illusions were poor substitutes to the real thing.

How many times had he stood on its beaches wondering how things could have been different? How many times had he wondered how things could have _been?_ To finally have the means to explore it—to finally escape a nightmare of his own making… _It’s a second chance,_ the voice insists.

 

_“You deserve better.” Clay hears but he looks away, unwilling to see any pity accompanied by the spoken words._

_(There is none; only gratitude.)_

Yet, the other side rages and cries in loss.  _It’s not yours,_ it howls. It screams in Clay’s ears, cursing his name in hollow, _aching_ wails as it accuses him for theft of  _the place he stole._ _It bears down on him, a wound in his chest that festers and rots with each reminder that_ _this isn’t yours, you thief, You Murderer, YOU TRAITOR—_

_He grasps at the lapels of Desmond’s hoodie, feeling the fabric come undone stitch by stitch but all he can see is the earnestness in Desmond’s eyes._

_(It should not have been him.)_

Clay huffs softly.  

Of course, it’s the latter that wins. It’s hardly a fair fight, after all. 

Sighing, the assassin leans back against the metal air vent, breathing in the fresh, cool air. He rubs his arms to get some heat through the fabric of his hoodie, making a note to find some thicker clothing later. Thermals would be nice considering the changing season.

(It’s September now, isn’t it? It had felt so much **_longer_** _._ )

Clay hums underneath his breath, speculating the chances of finding any sort of heavy clothing if he were to raid the other Assassins’ closets. He had to take care of himself, after all. He’d hate to catch something. It would be horribly disrespectful— _unacceptable,_ really, because—

_Don’t you know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you?_

 

The once-dead man closes his eyes, relishing the peace and is only mildly put out when the footsteps he’d heard approaching moments earlier _doesn’t_ pass by the roof access. 

“You know, Lucy said _in_ the hideout.”

Clay twists his head to the side, smiling carelessly at his visitor who is neck high through the hatch leading to the roof. “’In the hideout.’ ‘On the hideout.’ To-ma-to. To-mah-to.” 

Shaun, in all his unimpressed glory, rolls his eyes. “Say that again when we find that you’ve fallen off the building and broken your neck.”

Clay snorts.  “Oh, ye of little faith.”

“Well, you _did_ faint on your first day.” The historian says blandly. The, “ _amongst other things,”_ goes unsaid but it’s clear in the look Shaun gives him.

“I got better!” Clay defends and Shaun, for his part, gives Clay such a deadpan look that he can’t help but snicker. “Hey, I said I was sorry and besides, you _like_ me now!”

Shaun makes a sour face but to Clay’s immense glee, doesn’t deny it. The brunet grunts as he pulls himself onto the roof, teeth chattering when the wind decides to pick up. “Why are you up here anyways? We thought you’d be relaxing or something.”

“This _is_ ‘relaxing or something.’” Clay corrects and shows it by folding his arms behind his head to lay flat against the asphalt. “Breathe it in. Outside here with this fresh air… it’s nice.” 

 “Here? Where’s its near _freezing_?” Shaun wrinkles his nose in distaste. “And I hardly think an industrial zone is synonymous with ‘fresh air.’ How can you find this _nice?_ ”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Clay smiled, closing his eyes. “You don’t know the things you take for granted sometimes.” Like being able to feel the warmth of the sun on your skin or the smell of cut grass. Clay breathes in the frigid air, shivering in delight when the cold makes goosebumps creep along his skin. Every cell in him feels so _alive._

“Oh, you’re one of _those_ people.” Shaun says, not emphasizing whether ‘those’ people meant the outdoorsy or hippy types that Clay thinks he means.

He’s not entirely wrong in any case. It had taken death for Clay to fully realize the staggering depth of appreciation he has for the simple things once taken for granted. Yet, for Shaun to have such disdain for these little enjoyments makes Clay want to reach over and shake some sense into the other Assassin ( _because you don’t understand how overwhelmingly EMPTY it feels like when it’s all gone,)_ but instead, just gives Shaun a sympathetic look.

“Don’t feel too bad, man. We all can’t tan like me.” Clay says compassionately and thinks, _wow_ if Shaun rolls his eyes any harder, they’d surely fall right out. 

“I don’t even know why I bothered to check up on you.” Shaun grimaces. “ _Give him some freedom,_ they said. _It’ll be less stressful in the long run,_ they said.”

“Well, _you_ try being cooped up for months in a room and see what happens.” The once-dead man retorts. Silence answers him and suddenly, Clay realizes too little too late that he’s said the wrong thing. He sneaks a glance at Shaun, hoping that the other man thinks that he’s exaggerating, but winces when all he sees is wariness on the other man’s face. 

“Desmond, you’ve only been with Abstergo for a week.” Shaun says slowly.

Well, shit. “It felt like longer.” Clay amends hastily, but the other Assassin’s expression doesn’t change. He turns away. “Technically it was, if you count Altair’s memories in years.”

Shaun clucks his tongue and Clay very nearly groans in dismay at the gears he can practically hear turning in the other Assassin’s head.

“Is… there something you want us to know, Desmond?” Shaun begins cautiously, making Clay’s jaws lock. “Have you been Bleeding?”

Clay snorts. “’Course not. I’m the one being careful here. I think you’re just reading too much into little details.”

“That _is_ in my job description _._ ” Shaun deadpans before shaking his head irritably. “But that’s not the point. Look, I know we just met and you were very literally foisted into this team just a bit ago but that’s just it—we’re a _team_ now. We’re only as strong as our weakest link—” Here, Clay snorts but Shaun levels him with a very pointed look. “ ** _So_** , if there’s something going on with you as our newly acquired novice, we have to know.”    

“Call me crazy, but I get the feeling you don’t trust me when I say I’m fine.” Clay accuses.

“ _Crazy_ , I don’t trust you.” The other Assassin says simply and there’s an edge of _something_ in his voice that has Clay’s haunches rising. “Because you’re not fine. As much as I’d like to hang you by your ankles off the side of the building and shake the answers out of you—”

“—which is _workplace violence_ , by the way—” 

“—I can’t, but since you’re so _tightlipped_ , why don’t I do my job again and tell you what _I_ think is up with you.” Shaun finishes smoothly, and his hands fold flawlessly together on his lap. “You’re looking for something.”

Clay’s playful grin freezes on his face. “Oh?”   

“Or perhaps that’s not the right word.” Shaun says pensively, eyes narrowing from beneath his glasses. He cocks his head, brows raised at Clay’s expression. “Did you think we hadn’t noticed? Sure, you speed-rug through the Ezio’s memories and barely give any thought to the side missions but… the civilians. You go for their wallets like it’s a second thought. You primarily focus on their faces. Even when it’s out of your way.”

 

_(“Are you here? Hidden like my glyphs?)_

“So, tell me, Desmond.” Shaun asks, noting silently how very still the other Assassin has gone. _“Who are you looking for?_ ”   

 

-0-

 

A ripple across calm water.

He drowsily wakes to this odd disturbance in his peaceful, little world. He had thought that he had been alone here, yet here is the first evidence of something new. Interest piqued, he sifts through expanse, lethargic and unhurried.

He finds it immediately; a fog of pale light.

It feels… foreign, unworldly.

He comes closer, fingers reaching out to it in curiosity before regretting it immediately when powerful, _poisonous_ anger charges the air. He freezes, the more sensible part of him urges him to flee, wanting to escape the anger lest it be turned on him but another part of him keeps his feet planted into the ground, somehow certain that the light would do him no harm because—

 

_“We built you in our image. We built you to survive.”_

 

 _Kin_ , he realizes, tremulous.

Abruptly, the anger ceases. Something unescapable teases the air, testing the waters, and when it reaches him…

Surprise. Intrigue. And then…

**_“What is this?”_ **

He stills.

The voice— ** _Her_** voice falls over him like a heavy blanket. Refined and powerful, it catches him off guard because he _knows_ her, doesn’t he? Perhaps not personally, but… somehow, deep in his bones, he _knows her._

There is a beat of speculative silence before the air swells with… _recognition?_

 **_“You… It’s_ ** _you **. And yet… How have you gotten yourself here?”**_

Soft, warm. It lulls him back into lethargy just as something slides against his head— _into_ his head, curling and _twisting…_ It feels like something in him is being pulled out from a straw.

**_“Have you, too, been left behind?”_ **

Had he? No… no, it had been his own free will to…do _something,_ that left him here. (Right? _Right?_ Why couldn’t he remember?) He hesitates and the Other latches onto that doubt. She digs deeper, dissecting and studying **_all that is_** **_left_** of what he is until—

**_“I see. That is what it has come to. Yet, your part…is still the same.”_ **

She pulls away, puts him back together. She croons at him, as if apologizing.  

**_“Oh, little lamb. Look at what he has done to you.”_ **

Dazed, he feels something nudge him forward, feels the vibrations of a bell-like laugh sweep over him and despite her treatment of him, he… _trusts…_ her.

**_“Worry not. You are in my domain now. Let me help you.”_ **

He trusts her.

**_“You just need to do something for me.”_ **

He trusts her.

**_“I knew you would. Come now.”_ **

He trusts her. 

**_“There is much to do, Desmond.”_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while, yeah? Resolution for this year... I'll try to get to writing more! 
> 
> Happy New Years, everyone!


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